


leaving a message (this happened before)

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Birthdays, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Hephaestus, Second person POV, Voicemail, i miss maxwell and so does jacobi, rip jacobi can't even be happy on his birthday lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 07:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: so, you decide to do something uniquely stupid- you pick up the phone, and dial the number of a dead woman.





	leaving a message (this happened before)

here's the thing.

it's the twelfth of november, about one in the morning, and you've got your knees tucked up to your chest as you stare out of the window at the rain running down it. running down it like rivers, streams, some other kind of water-related thing too, probably.

“happy fuckin’ birthday to me,” you mutter.

four years ago, when you'd said the same thing, maxwell had told you to shut up, but given you a present anyway. a book, one you wanted, and she'd helped fix up your arm and it had been the best gift anyone’d ever given you. five years ago, you'd been in bed with kepler.

you don't like to think about that one, or the ones before it.

you spent at least one in space- you don't even remember what year it is, now- and it had passed entirely unremarkably, just how you'd wanted it to. thing is, you're still not sure minkowski and eiffel even realised, but lovelace had rested her hand on your shoulder and said “happy birthday, jacobi”, and you'd felt a little ill because she touched you, but you'd forced a smile and a “thanks” anyway.

but now- november twelfth, one in the morning, it's raining outside and your apartment is cold because you forgot to turn the heating on. eiffel, across the city, is probably awake and talking to hera. if you wanted to, you could call him.

you don't.

instead, you do something uniquely stupid- you grab your phone, key in the first number you ever memorised, and wait for it to go to voicemail.

_“you've reached the voicemail of the esteemed doctor maxwell, computer scientist extraordinaire. if you're that desperate, leave a message after the beepy-thing.”_

“hey, alana,” you say. “it's been a while, huh?”

the city lights paint your room with an orange wash of color, and you sigh.

“it's… my birthday. i'm thirty-five now. in three years, difference'll be a decade, kid.”

your knees are still against your chest, tight and constricted. you feel sick, you feel the worst you ever have, you feel better than you did when kepler touched you. nothing makes much sense.

“fuck, maxwell,” you say, “i miss you. minkowski, she… she's apologised, but it doesn't mean- it's not- you're still _gone_. it's selfish. i want you here. one last birthday.”

sometimes it feels like you barely knew her at all.

“anyway. miss you. you're still a dick, you insensitive android.”

_she was my sister_ , you think as you hang up and rub your face with your hands. she was your _sister_ , your _best friend_.

you just wish she was here to tell you to shut up and call you old again. 

"happy birthday, asshole," you try and remember her saying. it doesn't quite work, but in any case- it makes you smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> if that... was in any way enjoyable, you should hmu on tumblr @sciencematter <3


End file.
